


forget the protocol

by Timjan



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Bi-Curiosity, Blow Job, Coming Untouched, Crooked Exchange, Crooked Exchange 2019, Drunk Sex, First Time, Gay Bar, M/M, Prompt Fill, Sexuality Issues, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-01-31 22:36:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18600802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Timjan/pseuds/Timjan
Summary: Lovett accidentally invites his new boss to a gay club. Oops.





	forget the protocol

**Author's Note:**

  * For [labellementeuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/labellementeuse/gifts).



> Hello labellementeuse!
> 
> The seed of this idea has been slowly taking root in the back of my mind for a while. And when I read through the list of requests and found your prompt about DC era JonJon + what their early dynamic might have been like, the seed sprouted into this story! I tried to water it with as many of your likes as possible, too. : )
> 
> This flower is best kept in the shade, so please help keep it secret and safe!

“So, do you have any interesting weekend plans, Lovett?” Favreau asks, smiling easily. He pushes his (well, Cody’s) chair away from the desk and swivels it around so he’s facing Lovett instead of the computer.

They’re done with the final edit to the last speech they have to finish up today, and now it’s apparently time for small talk. _Fuck._

“I’m going out with some friends tonight,” Lovett hedges, unsure of how many details he wants to provide. “What are _you_ doing for the ‘big weekend’?”

It’s not really a big weekend. It has just become a joke among the White House staff that everyone has special plans for this weekend, now that they’re finally out of the 24/7 nonsense that working for the Obama team has been ever since Lovett joined up (and before that too, probably).

“Honestly, my only real plan is to _sleep_!” Favreau replies, shrugging expressively. “But going out with friends sounds nice, too. I haven’t gone out in _ages_!”

He _has_ seen his friends, though. Favreau is a bone fide Obama bro, with all his best buds within arm’s reach at all times. And good for him! Lovett schools his face from showing any bitterness, because he’s not bitter. He’s _not_. Everybody’s been great, doing everything to make him feel welcome. Part of the _team_. It’s not his new colleagues’ fault that Lovett is prickly and awkward. Or that he jumped on the Obama bandwagon _way_ too late.

“Maybe I should call someone up?” Favreau muses into the silence where a reply from Lovett should have gone. Dammit.

“Or you could join us tonight,” Lovett blurts, drastically overcorrecting when trying to catch up with the conversation.

 _What the fuck was that?_ Did Lovett just invite his new boss – his _aggressively straight_ new boss – to a night out with his gay friends? Lovett’s fully out, it’s not that (the closet stressed him out way too much). But that doesn’t mean he has to rub his sexuality in Favreau’s face by trying to drag him along to a gay club in some sort of absurd impulse to pay Favreau back for how welcoming he’s been to Lovett. Or whatever it was that made Lovett say that.

Lovett is about to start floundering to walk the invitation back, wave it off as some sort of weird joke. But Favreau has already perked up like a dog who’s about to be thrown the juiciest bone it’s seen in its life.

“Really?” he asks, inexplicably excited about hanging out with total strangers.

“Uh, sure,” Lovett says. Too late to back out now. He takes care to conjure up the joking tone that has brought him whole-skinned through many an awkward moment before going on, “It’s fine, you can come, you don’t have to beg. But I have to warn you: we’re going to a gay club, and you can only come if you follow The Rules.”

Favreau leans forward in Cody's chair, closer to Lovett. His eyes sparkle with amusement. “Bring it on!” he laughs.

“Alright! First of all, guys are gonna hit on you,” Lovett warns. He feels like he’s stating the obvious, here, but Favreau can be painfully oblivious at times.

“Mm, sounds like a pleasant reversal of always having to be the one to make the first move,” Favreau jokes back, clearly not taking this seriously.

Lovett rolls his eyes. “You’re not taking this seriously. The first rule is that you can’t freak out when someone flirts with you, but you also can’t lead them on.”

Favreau meets his eyes, affecting a serious face that only twitches a _little_ at the corners of his mouth. “No freaking out, no leading on. Got it.”

Lovett isn’t sure Favreau really has ‘got it,’ but he goes on anyway, trying to come up with more Rules, now that it's become a thing. “And you can’t flirt with girls either – even if they’re not gay that’s just tacky. And you have to stop doing that head tilt thing you do when you laugh, or people are gonna think you’re flirting with them.”

“Head tilt thing?” Favreau sounds truly confused, but surely he must know...?

“Yeah, you know, like –” Lovett cocks his head coquettishly to the side, fluttering his eyelashes and giggling.

“I don’t do that!” Favreau sputters, genuinely outraged and yet grinning again, gap teeth on full display.

Lovett laughs. “You’re basically doing it right now! Here, just –” Lovett reaches out, nudges at the side of Favreau’s head until it’s at the correct angle. “Yeah, that. Don’t do that.”

Favreau tilts his head back up when Lovett lets him go, and tries to stop smiling again, even less successfully this time.

“Also: no casual touching, no distractedly putting things in your mouth… and on the opposite end, no sports talk,” Lovett goes on, counting the rules off on his fingers. “We don’t want you to seem so gay that you disappoint people, but you don’t have to _flaunt_ your straightness, you know? You don’t have to rub it in people’s _faces_. Oh, and you have to dance at least three songs. That’s not my rule, that’s the group’s rule. I’ll have to do it too.”

“That sounds manageable,” Favreau agrees agreeably, manifestly unaware of the extent to which he does all those things – except the dancing, obviously – on a daily basis. “So… what should I wear to acquiesce with your rules?”

‘ _Something tight and dark,’_ Lovett wants to say, out of the purely selfish (though in the interest of making Favreau look not-gay, counterproductive) wish to get to see Favreau in something tight and dark. “Anything but your pink tie,” he says instead. “If you wear that you’ll look gay _and_ dumb.”

“Instead of just dumb?” Favreau jokes back, getting out of the chair and starting to pack up.

Lovett takes a moment to look Favreau over as he puts on his suit jacket, makes a bit out of exaggeratedly looking him up and down and pulling a considering face. (Making it into a bit doesn’t make Favreau look any less good. His suit could fit better, and he still has some of that signature campaign flabbiness – which Lovett knows all too well but has had more time to counteract in himself – but those are minor quibbles; Favreau’s definitely cute, with full lips, broad shoulders, dreamy eyes, and a delectable five-o’clock-stubble.)

This is taking more liberties with his new boss than Lovett has dared to before now, even as a joke, but apparently the two of them are hang out-friends now. And Favreau takes Lovett’s wordless teasing in stride – his only response is to stick his tongue out at him.

“I’m sure however you look coming out of that closet will be fine,” Lovett says, doubling down.

\---

At half past eight, Lovett and Favreau meet up outside the club, just the two of them. When Favreau catches sight of Lovett he spreads his arms in a ‘how did I do?’ gesture.

Lovett looks him over critically. The buzz cut is good, in the sense that it’s so painfully unflattering that it screams “straight dude.” (And also “hot enough to get away with any haircut.”) As for the clothes, they’ll do fine; blue jeans – dark, but not tight – a mixed grey v-neck, and a black track jacket. And, for some reason, mirror aviators, pushed up on his head.

Lovett is in jeans and a t-shirt too, so he’s not in a place to judge, really. Except the glasses. He’s judging the _hell_ out of the glasses.

“The sunglasses have to go,” Lovett sums it all up.

Favreau laughs and acquiesces, putting the glasses into a pocket, and then they go into the club together.

Three of Lovett’s friends have arrived early to claim a table, and Lovett immediately throws himself into introductions to get them over with as quickly as possible.

“This is Spencer – not the Spencer I told you about, different one! This one works at a think tank, but we like him anyway. This is Linda, she’s not even in politics, so I don’t care what she does –”

“I’m a teacher,” Linda cuts in.

“Teachers are very important,” Favreau says sagely.

“– and this is Bruce. You might have met him, he’s at State. No? The rest of the gang will show up at some point, probably. You gayses, this is Jon Favreau. He’s my boss, so please behave. And yes, his name is also ‘Jon,’ which is very confusing for everybody involved, but everybody calls him Favreau or Favs, so it works out.”

“Nice to meet you, Favreau,” Bruce says, offering Favreau his hand and a winning smile.

Favreau passes his first test by shaking Bruce’s hand firmly but curtly, and moving on to greeting Linda without any unnecessarily prolonged eye contact.

\---

The night goes on and goes well, but Lovett can never quite relax. Even though everyone is getting along like gangbusters, Lovett worries about Favreau embarrassing him in front of his friends, _and_ about his friends embarrassing him in front of Favreau. He gets on the floor to try to dance his nervous energy off, staying for longer than the mandatory three songs, and it kinda works, at least until Linda shows up and pulls at his arm.

“Go baby-sit your boss yourself, I wanna dance!” she yells over the music.

Favreau is doing something on his phone, the screen illuminating his face in the dimness of the club, when Lovett manages to weave his way back to their table, carrying two Miller Lites.

“What’re you doing?”

“Texting Tommy. He’s jealous that I went out without him,” Favreau mumbles, still tapping away at his private Blackberry, his tongue between his teeth in concentration.

Lovett, irrationally, feels a sting of jealousy too. Ridiculous! Lovett likes Tommy, from what he’s seen of him this far. Besides, it’s not like Lovett, three weeks or so into knowing Favreau, has any claim on him over his actual best friend.

Lovett puts Favreau’s beer down before him, and smiles at the face of light disgust that Favreau makes when he sees the brand. It quickly shifts over to a smile.

“Thanks, man,” he says, refilling an old glass left on the table, lifting it to toast Lovett. “I’ll put my phone away, I just have to…”

The phone in question beeps again, and Favreau glances quickly at the screen, breaking out into a grin, before pocketing the phone and turning his attention back to Lovett, the grin still on his face. It’s mesmerizing.

“Has anyone hit on you yet?” Lovett asks. It comes out brusque.

Favreau shakes his head. “Nah, Linda was like a bulldog, glaring daggers at anyone who looked at me twice. I think one dude – him, over there,” Favreau points, semi-discreetly, by tilting his beer glass towards a blond guy in a tight green t-shirt, “thought we were a couple.”

Lovett laughs. “Wow, I bet Linda didn’t like that.”

“Mmm, yes, she went off on an extensive rant about the scourge of straight couples at gay bars.”

Oh, Linda. Maybe lay off the anti-straight rants when you're with a straight. “Sorry about that.”

“Why?” Favreau asks. “I’m not a straight couple.”

Lovett laughs again, takes a sip from his beer.

\---

Time passes, and Lovett and Favreau are still stuck guarding the table; none of Lovett’s friends show up to supplant them so they can dance, or to, you know, hang out, but it’s fine. The conversation between the two of them flows easily, as does the alcohol, and also Favreau's laughter at Lovett’s jokes.

“You sound… different, here,” Favreau says, suddenly, after a short lull in the conversation.

“Gayer?” Lovett supplies, just a tad confrontational.

Favreau shrugs, a little bashful. “I dunno, more yourself maybe? It’s just… you know you can speak like this at work, too, if you want? You don’t have to, like… hide it.”

“That’s sweet of you,” Lovett says, exaggerating the lilt a little. And… it’s hard to see in the dim light, but is Favreau… blushing?

“I just want you to be comfortable,” Favreau says, lamely, and drops the subject.

\---

A little after that – still no sign of Lovett’s friends, what the hell? – Favreau laughs at another of Lovett’s jokes. First, he throws his head back. And then. Then he cocks it to the side.

“There!” Lovett yells out, spilling some of his martini from the violence of his accusatory gesture. “You’re doing the thing!”

“What thing?” Favreau asks innocently. He’s still doing the thing.

“The _thing_ ,” Lovett insists, waving his now martini-free hands around. Favreau shouldn’t make him explain things when he’s this drunk.

“Oh, wait, do you mean the head tilt thing I do that will make people think I’m flirting with them?” Favreau says slowly, deliberately tilting his head even further. “ _That_ thing?”

Lovett freezes. His brain is just a monotone buzz as Favreau holds his gaze. Then, with his head still at an angle and his eyes still locked on Lovett, Favreau very, very slowly reaches his hand out and boops Lovett’s nose.

“What are you doing?” Lovett asks. He sounds strangely plaintive to his own ears.

Favreau moves his hand up to run his fingers through the hair at Lovett’s temple.

“Should I grow my hair out?” he muses.

“Wow, you’re drunk.” Lovett sounds more like himself now, thank fucking g-d.

“I’m not!” Favreau protests. “I’m breaking your rules, but I’m not drunk. At least, not very.”

“Breaking my rules?” Lovett asks breathily. Is Favreau sitting closer than he was before?

“‘No casual touching,’” Favreau quotes, touching a finger to his thumb like he's making a list. “‘No leading people on.’” Favreau checks off another finger, then he pauses for a moment, catches Lovett's gaze. “...but is it really leading someone on if you’d be happy to follow up on it?”

“If you’re just teasing me right now…” Lovett says, his voice gone rough, deep. There’s no hiding what that means, no walking this back.

Thankfully, Favs reacts just as obviously, eyes darkening, lips parting. “No,” he says, shutting his eyes, taking a deep – steadying? – breath. “God, I’m… I need another drink.”

Lovett laughs, startled, and reaches out to run his fingers swiftly across Favs’ knuckles. “Fine,” he says, heart hammering in his chest, “as long as you’re not trying to black this out before tomorrow. You stay here, I’m buying.”

\---

When Lovett returns, Favs is gone from the table, replaced by Spencer, Bruce and Jenny – who has apparently arrived without saying hello to Lovett. Lovett _would_ make a big stink about that, but right now he’s more worried about the possibility that Favs has left in a gay panic and that Lovett will have to quit the coolest job he’s ever had.

“Relax, your… friend just went to dance,” Bruce says, obviously reading Lovett’s every thought on his face. Then he leans forward conspiratorially. “You should join him.”

Something stirs at the bottom Lovett’s alcohol-soaked brain. “Hey. Hey. You guys planned this,” he accuses. “ _That’s_ why you all stayed away! And why _you_ –” he swivels his head to glare at Jenny – “didn’t come say hi! You… you _manipulated_ me into hitting on my boss.”

“ _You’re_ the one who brought your boss to a gay club, dude,” Spencer counters. “We just made the obvious inference that you’re into him. And _he’s_ clearly into _you_ , so go dance with him, tiger.”

Lovett glances down at the ciders in his hands, for a moment ridiculously – drunkenly – unsure of what to do with them.

“I’ll liberate you from those,” Jenny offers, a light note of humorous coaxing in her voice.

\---

Lovett finds Favs with the rest of his friends – Rami is apparently here, too – moving to the music with surprising grace. Which is to say, he looks _less_ like a fucking idiot than he _could_ do.

Lovett takes his place in the dancing circle, next to Favs, and begins to sway back and forth a little, wiggles his arms. Favs immediately moves into his space, and Lovett sees Linda roll her eyes in the corner of his eye. He smiles at her, flashes a thumbs up behind Favs’ back. Linda rolls her eyes again, and Lovett moves his attention back onto the guy who’s currently grinding up against him, bent forward at the waist, his ass against Lovett’s crotch. Under the blinking lights, Lovett runs his hands up his boss’ back, down his sides.

The music pumps around them, there are bodies everywhere, Lovett’s already sweating, his head spinning pleasantly with alcohol and arousal. Soon, Favs, laughing, twists around so they’re face to face. He pulls Lovett closer, slender fingers grabbing at Lovett’s waist – didn’t Tommy mention Favs being a pianist that one time in the mess? – pushing into Lovett’s flesh through his shirt. And then they’re kissing on the dance floor, Lovett’s friends ‘whoop!’-ing around them.

Lovett’s eyes are closed, and he’s drunk enough to be all sensation as Favs tongue pushes into his mouth. He’s a little too quick at first, but then he slows down, bites at Lovett’s lower lip, swipes his tongue over Lovett’s teeth. Some other dancer pushes into Lovett’s side and Favs steadies him with a hand at the small of Lovett’s back. It feels _good_.

“Take me home,” Favs whispers when they break apart.

How could Lovett say no?

\---

Cab rides are made for second guessing. Lovett and Favs sit four entire feet apart in the backseat, out of courtesy for the driver – though picking up two men from outside Secrets on a Friday night, he should really be prepared to witness some light, homoerotic necking. Lovett looks out the window as Favs makes drunken small talk with the driver. About fucking _sports_.

As DC by Dark rolls by, the magnitude of what is about to happen hits Lovett. He’s taking his _boss_ home to fuck. His ostensibly _straight_ boss. Who is the head speechwriter for the _president_. Fuck, Favs will have to update his clearance form after tonight.

Lovett wants to clear the air, make sure that they both now what they’re getting into here, but now is not the time; Favs is engrossed in a joking/not-joking argument about the Patriots with their driver. And even if he wasn’t, this is a conversation best kept private.

So, Lovett waits until they’re on the right side of his rickety door before he pokes a finger into Favs’ sternum and demands, “Are you bi?”

Favs coughs. “I, uh… I don’t know.” He smiles winningly, clearly trying to charm his way through the awkwardness. Lovett can respect that; _his_ weapon of choice is humor, but the impulse is the same.

“You don’t know,” Lovett repeats, slowly retracting his finger.

Before Lovett can settle on a next line of attack, Favs shrugs, a gesture that somehow involves his whole body.

“Well,” he says, sheepish in a cutely drunk way. “I’ve never really considered it before.” He shrugs again, excessive. “But then you said all those things about how it always seems like I’m flirting with you –”

“I didn’t – !” Lovett protests, aghast. “Shut up!”

“Yeah, yeah, not in so many words.” Favs waves a dismissive hand, nearly hits Lovett’s coat rack. “Anyway, it made me think, you know, maybe I was?”

“Was… bi?” Lovett sobered up quite a bit during the cab ride, but he’s still too drunk to follow this conversation.

“Was flirting with you. Like, subconsciously. Unconsciously?”

“That’s… fucking stupid, Favs.”

Favs just grins his gap-toothed grin again, leans a little into Lovett’s space in the cramped hallway. Lovett should take a step back. This really is fucking stupid, a harebrained scheme of a hookup. But counterpoint: Favs smells really good.

“I cannot promise that I’ll be super into everything you may want to do,” Favs says, adorably infusing a little Obama-cadence into his words. “But I liked kissing you. So we can start with that, maybe? See where it takes us.”

Lovett feels dizzy. “Smooth,” he murmurs. Favs is always charming, and he always has a way with words, but being the target of his concentrated charm offensive is a lot. Lovett still thinks this is stupid, but it’s hard to argue with Favs’ bedroom eyes, with his slightly parted lips. When Favs closes the last of the distance between them, Lovett lets him.

\---

In Lovett’s messy bedroom, stripped of his jacket and his v-neck, but still wearing his not-tight-enough jeans, Favs smirks, gets his fingers on Lovett’s fly, and asks, in a low voice, “Is this the part of the night where we break the ‘no putting things in my mouth’ rule?”

Cool. Cool. That’s objectively a smarmily dorky line, but it works. It fucking _works_.

“You sure you’re up for it?” Lovett asks, all out of witticisms, his arms just as useless at his sides.

“Oh, don’t you worry about me being ‘up,’” Favs counters. He lets go of Lovett’s half-opened fly with one hand to grab Lovett’s wrist and pull it to his crotch so Lovett can feel just how ‘up’ he is.

“Fuck,” Lovett breathes, skating his hand up and down Favs’ erection through the rough fabric.

“Mmm, that feels good,” Favs murmurs. “But I thought this was supposed to be _my_ show.”

Again, how could Lovett say no? “I… sure,” he says, drawing his hand back, climbing up on the bed. “Let’s start with your show. Your premier performance, as it were. Go ahead, let’s get into it.”

Lovett leans back against the headboard as Favs gets his fly fully open. The only sounds in the room are the rustling of fabric and his and Favs out-of-sync pants; Lovett should have put on some music. Too late now.

Favs wrestles Lovett’s jeans down to his knees, then he slides his palms back up Lovett’s bare thighs, glancing between Lovett’s face and the bulge of his underwear. He looks freaked out, but determined.

“I have to say, you’re taking to this with more gusto than I would have imagined for a bicurious-curious first-timer,” Lovett encourages.

“Liquid courage,” Favs mumbles distractedly by way of explanation, his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth in concentration as he tries to get Lovett’s dick out from the pouch in his briefs.

Lovett swallows down any misgivings that such a statement could reasonably give rise to, and bites his tongue against the suggestion that Favs just pull the briefs down too. Maybe it’s easier for Favs to do this with that barrier of fabric still intact?

When Lovett’s dick’s finally out and proud, Favs takes a deep breath. He glances up at Lovett’s face one last time, eyes wide, and then he takes Lovett in his mouth.

At first, it’s just wet heat, a shock of intensity that’s impossible to disentangle into discrete sensations. Then, as Favs settles into a bit of a rhythm, Lovett can start to sort out the swipe of his tongue from the press of his lips, the movement of his slender fingers from the light scrape of his teeth when he repositions. It starts to feel _really good_.

And then… Favs stops. And pulls off. And looks down on Lovett’s dick with this perplexed look that would be hilarious if it wasn’t so frustrating.

“Why’d you stop?” Lovett slurs, heart sinking.

“It’s… weird,” Favs ponders, ponderingly, still looking down at Lovett’s spit-wet dick.

_Unbelievable!_

“Good weird or bad weird?” Lovett asks, annoyed and aroused and trying to keep both out of his voice as much as possible.

Favs considers for a moment, tilting his head to the side (because of course he does).

“ _Weird_ weird,” he says at last.

“Do you want to stop?” Lovett asks, a little more in control of his faculties, now, a little more ready to actually stop this, if that’s what Favs wants. A little more ready to give up on this stupid experiment altogether, to throw Favreau out and jerk himself off, to never show up at the White House again.

Favs hesitates for just a moment too long. “No?”

“You sure about that?”

“I know I want to keep doing… stuff.”

When Favs meets Lovett’s gaze, there’s something in them that convinces Lovett that he really _does_ want to be here, wants to ‘keep doing stuff,’ but maybe some other stuff than what they’ve been trying.

“Okay. Okay,” Lovett says, suddenly decisive. “Let’s get you out of your head.”

He discreetly tucks himself into his underwear again, and pushes Favs back on the bed. Favs goes easily, willingly. Lovett arranges him so he’s lying down completely, not propped up against the headboard like Lovett himself had been.

“I like your pillows,” Favs says, when he gets his head on one of them.

“Uh, okay?”

“I usually don’t like other people’s pillows.” Favs explains.

“Alright, time to shut up,” Lovett orders. “And shut your eyes, too.”

Favs does. But then he must feel the bed dipping as Lovett knees off it, because his eyelids starts to flutter open again.

“Keep your eyes shut,” Lovett yells back into the bedroom, as he goes to get some music going.

\---

With Vampire Weekend drifting in from the living room, Lovett settles back onto the bed. Favs obediently keeps his eyes shut – apparently he _can_ follow rules after all – but he tilts his chin up for a kiss when Lovett gingerly gets into position above him, straddling his slim thighs, still covered in dark denim.

They make out for a while, Favs slowly relaxing beneath Lovett. When he starts moaning into Lovett’s mouth, Lovett takes it as a green light for him to move on to other parts of his body. So he nibble-kisses down Favs’ neck, spends some time on his dark nipples, runs his teeth over the marimba of his ribs. He intercuts his exploration with more mouth-to-mouth action, checking in that Favs still kisses back enthusiastically.

Then, Lovett gets his lips on Favs’ soft stomach, his breath speeding up a little with anticipation. There’s an enticing trail of dark hair stretching from Favs’ navel into his underwear. And Lovett fully intends to nose down it, to get Favs’ fly open and his dick in his mouth, show his boss how it’s _supposed_ to be done. But then he gets another idea.

“What are you doing?” Favs asks, as Lovett rummages through his nightstand. He sounds nervous, but his eyes are still closed.

“Getting lube,” Lovett replies, honestly. “Is that okay?”

Favs tenses up almost imperceptibly, coughs, asks, “For what?”

Lovett wants to just say ‘You’ll see,’ but that’s a vibe for a different time. “I want to finger you,” he says instead.

If Lovett has misjudged this, a couple of fingers up Favs’ ass will trigger his gay panic way more than a dick in his mouth had. But from Lovett’s experience it’s impossible to second guess yourself with a fingertip skimming your prostate. And that’s the goal, here: no more second guessing.

“It feels good, I promise,” he adds when Favs doesn’t answer, trying not to speculate about what’s going on beneath that buzz cut of his.

“Alright, I’m game,” Favs decides, at long last.

\---

Favs starts making noise almost immediately, going boneless against Lovett’s mattress as soon as they get past the first, awkward stretch that Lovett has to hush and coo him through. Now all kinds of sounds fall from his lips as he writhes and bucks under Lovett’s hands; moans and mindless syllables, half-formed words – the whole ‘getting him out of his head’ is clearly working – and then, finally, what Lovett had been waiting for without knowing he was waiting for it: “Jon.”

Lovett whimpers and immediately whispers back, “Jon,” the illicit thrill of saying his own name in bed quaking through him like an orgasm without ejaculation. He speeds up, twisting his fingers, bending down to press a kiss to Jon’s bare, pale thigh. Jon slings an arm over his face, bites down on his own lower lip with those gap teeth of his. Both he and Lovett are panting in time with Lovett’s strokes, in-out-in-out-in-out, as Lovett mouths up to the soft crease where Jon’s thigh meets his torso. Lovett stays there for a while, breathing Jon in as his fingers slide deeper inside him, skimming Jon's prostate on each stroke. Lovett sucks a mindless mark into Jon's soft skin, and he’s just about to move his mouth on further, get to the ‘show-his-boss-how-it’s-supposed-to-be-done’ part, when Jon arches off the bed. His back taut as a bow, Jon clenches hard around Lovett's fingers and comes, dick completely untouched. _Jesus_.

Jon comes down on an “aaah, aaah, aaah,” and when he falls silent, he’s silent for so long that Lovett starts to wonder if he’s fallen asleep, Lovett’s fingers still in him.

But then Jon opens his eyes, meets Lovett’s gaze, and says, simply, “Wow.”

Lovett, preening a little, carefully extricates his hand. When he comes back from washing it, Jon – who has clearly done some quick cleaning up of his own – is propped up on one arm, a knee up in the air, posing like a sexy cowboy in a pin-up calendar.

“Let me give that ‘blowjob’ thing a second try,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

And well, how could Lovett say no?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beta, [SelfRescuingPrincess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelfRescuingPrincess/), who did what she could to make this better but was ignored way more than usual. (Sorry!) At least I went with her idea for the title, which comes from the Vampire Weekend song _I Stand Corrected_.
> 
> This is also where I always mention my [podsa tumblr](https://abriefshoutouttosomeminutiae.tumblr.com/).


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